Work Text:
You are a morning person, but it’s rare for you to be up before Zayne.
He is still fast asleep when you wake at the very first bursts of the sun, painting the room in pale, pastel purples as the night begins its flee.
His body is moulded against yours and his bicep is pillowing your head, and it’s the kind of morning that makes you think that, if there really was such a thing as heaven, you wouldn’t be at all interested in seeing it.
Contented as you are, you try your best to lull yourself back to sleep, but you can’t help but reach out to brush aside the hair falling across his forehead, your touch featherlight as you lean in and trace the shape of his profile with the tip of your nose.
Somehow, Zayne is even more handsome when he is sleeping. Boyish, even.
The only indication that he was still the man who came home the evening before from back-to-back surgeries were the faintest fading indents across the bridge of his nose and the highs of his cheeks where a surgical mask had been pinching for almost ten hours.
How exhausted he must be and how hard he works and pushes himself makes your heart ache. You decide you want to do something for him today. To start his morning with the smell of waffles or a stack of pancakes, drenched in that sickly sweet maple syrup that he likes and dusted with yet a further layer of icing sugar.
When you try to slide out from underneath his grasp, however, his hold on you tightens. The free hand that was strewn possessively over your waist drags you back to him with a soft groan of protest, incoherent and coated in sleep.
You are worried that you’ve woken him but when you peer up at his face, you find that he is still out for the count and you breathe a sigh of relief. Resigning to your fate, you nestle back into the cradle of his heat, tucking yourself under his chin and you hear him hum into his pillow contentedly.
His eyelids are fluttering and there's a faint smile on his face now and you realise that he is dreaming.
Not the usual kind that has him restless, that wakes him gasping for breath and covered in sweat, but the kind of dreams you like to think are about you.
To test this theory, you lean in so that your bare chest is flush against his and teasingly whisper his name against his ear. His immediate response was to roll his hips and slide his hand down from your waist, finding purchase on your backside and letting his fingertips sink into the pliant flesh.
You feel the hard length of him pressing against your stomach, the tip of it lined up at your belly button.
You squeak in surprise.
Oh. So it's that kind of dream, huh?
The pancakes can wait, you think.
Maybe you can do something else for him this morning, too.
Biting back a smile, you giddily place a kiss on the corner of his mouth, lips barely there in comparison to the hand now trailing down a line from his chest to the furrows of his abdominal muscles.
Zayne seems to have a frown for every occasion, but the one he is wearing right now is your favourite.
It’s the kind he uses on you when you are being a mild irritation, a pinch between his brows as your fingers skirt around where he wants you most.
It is oddly gratifying, you think, being the one to tease him for once. To have him at your mercy, at least until he wakes up and takes back the reins.
His hold on you slackens when, finally, you grasp the turgid length of him, relaxing into the sensation and giving you enough wiggle room to shimmy down beneath the bedsheets and gently encourage him to roll onto his back.
You settle yourself between his knees and he finds this position more satisfying, you notice. His chest expands with a deep inhale and his entire body stretches out around you, reminding you of a cat lounging in a sunbeam: languid, unhurried, content in the knowledge that he’ll get what he wants in the end.
The span of your hand is not enough to wrap them around him completely, so you grip him tight and pump for a few beats. This prompts a satisfied groan, a low rumble birthed from the deepest cave in his chest.
Another peek up.
He is still fast asleep but stirring, breath quickening and eyes fluttering open and blinking rapidly.
You catch the faintest shimmer of hazel until he screws them shut again at the feeling of your fingers closing daintily around the base of him, and your tongue trailing wetly along a protruding vein all the way to flick the slit at the top. He curses at the motion, his muscles tensing at the sharp sting of pleasure.
Zayne has never been a man of many words, but in bed, his mouth is filthy. He whispers a round of expletives and reaches down to grip the hair on the back of your head and it’s just so very Zayne, you think, that even in his unconscious state, he still has to be the one in control.
Finally, you take him into your mouth like he wants you to, tongue flat and dragging up the underside of his cock.
You tease him with shallow bobs of your head before bearing down, taking him inch by inch.
His hips move in involuntary thrusts, determined to fuck your mouth until he hits the back of your throat and you gag, and that is apparently what it takes to wake him, gasping and startling upright enough to throw the covers from off the both of you.
The curse you pull from him ends in delirious laughter.
“Fuck. I thought I was dreaming, my love…”
You pull yourself off of him, your lips and the head of his cock still connected by a string of spit.
With your hand still working on his shaft, you rest your cheek against his inner thigh and blink up at him with an innocent look.
“Oh,” you say. “A good dream?”
“Yes…” he breathes, reaching for your face.
He cradles it gently by your jaw, spreading his thumb across your lower lip before sliding it into your mouth.
“…But the real thing is so much better.”
Smiling wickedly, you crawl up the length of his body and swing a leg over his hips.
“Really?” you laugh. “Because we’re only just getting started.”